Laws of Motion
by infamyxhurts
Summary: Illyria Cobray isn't a Career. She never received the kind of training District 2 is known for, but to save her tributes she'll have to think like them. She'll have to think like her mentor partner, Ajax, the only person she can trust in the Capitol.


**Title: **Laws of Motion

**Author: **infamyxhurts

**Rating: **M

**Characters: **Clove, Cato, and more.

**Pairings: **OC/OC, Clove/Cato, Finnick/Annie.

**Summary: **Illyria Cobray isn't a Career. She never received the kind of training District 2 is known for, but to save her tributes she'll have to think like them. The only person on her side is her mentor partner, Ajax, who at times feels more like an adversary than an ally. But she'll have to trust him, whether she wants to or not.

**Author's Note: **I've been involved in a THG roleplay for the last few months and I've gained an appreciation for a lot of the more overlooked characters in the book. This story is about my original characters, Ria and Jax, but it's also about Clove and Cato. It's about the mentors that we didn't meet, and the ones I have a particular soft spot for. I really enjoy writing this and I'd really love some feedback, so please review if you have the time!

* * *

On the morning of the Reaping, I try to care. Two more children will be picked to die, or survive, and neither outcome is particularly pleasant considering what the victor will have to suffer through. Nothing ever really erases the damage done in the Arena. I still wake ten times in the middle of the night just to listen to myself scream, and I'm not the only one with night terrors in the Victor's Village.

None of us ever mention it, though. Enobaria might screech like a wild animal in the dark of the night, lost somewhere terrifying, but in the light of day she' still stern and proud and nothing can touch her. Brutus is slightly more unhinged; the worst parts of him have been polished until they gleam out from his eyes.

Neither of them has anything left in this world except themselves. Their families are long gone and the only friends they have are a handful of broken people. It's strange, counting myself among their ranks.

I came back from the Sixty-ninth Hunger Games and it took several months for me to believe it. My parents and sister moved into the Victor's Village with me, comfortably well off for the first time in our lives. My father used to work in the stone quarries, my mother at The Nut as a technician's assistant. Neither of them had ever earned more than the bare minimum, but they did what they could for us.

My sister, Briar, and I know that we're lucky, knew that we were. Our luck has been running out, though. She was fifteen when she fell pregnant to a boy who ran when he found out. With no money to raise a child, too young and scared to cope with it, she hid it from our parents. I found out two weeks later and started work on the assembly line at one of the many munitions factories in the district, earning money to help Briar when the baby came.

And then she was reaped. I still remember the urge to vomit that overtook me when her name was called, all eyes turned to her expectantly. I watched as she unconsciously wrapped her arm around her still flat stomach and took a tentative step forwards. Throwing myself towards the stage, I volunteered. I still don't regret it. I saved my sister's life, saved the life of her child.

I survived in the Arena by digging up the bombs, using my limited knowledge of weaponry to take them apart and remove the incendiary devices, hashing together a few crude but effective explosives. I got out with my life, but everything else the Capitol has done to me might come close to being my end. I came home to a family I didn't quite recognize, the roles having changed, my parents aware now that their eldest daughter had killed people, and that their youngest, at fifteen years old, was pregnant. They tried to be there for both of us, while I was trapped in nightmares and Briar withdrew from the public to hide her swelling belly.

After everything it's hard to muster empathy for the kids who'll be picked this year. Unlike me, most of them will have trained their lives away for the chance at glory. They'll choose it willingly, and not to save someone they love. Enobaria and Brutus will mentor them, and the odds will _not_ be in their favor. One will die while the other lives, or they'll both be torn apart in the Arena and another District will receive the recognition, the praise of the Capitol.

Expectations still weigh on me, though, force me to smile as every year the cameras swoop in to catch reactions and moments suitable for television. My mother helps me get ready, washing and combing my blonde hair. I can only just abide her touch when I remember the stylists who waxed and plucked and paraded me like a prize-winning animal trotted out for the slaughter.

"It'll be over soon," mum says, smoothing expensive lotion into my damp hair with her hands, twisting the locks into loose curls.

"It'll never be over," I retort with a sigh. Mum walks over to my closet, her back to me as she searches for something for me to wear. A victor from District 2 can't be seen in outdated fashions, so every year my wardrobe gets a boost. I can't abide them, the clothes, and even looking at them makes my stomach turn.

"Ria," mum says weakly after a long pause, grabbing a dress from the rack and laying it down on my bed, "I've never defended the Games, and I don't intend to start now, but would it kill you to keep your opinions to yourself? You've been... you've been reckless."

I frown, hit by the force of my mother's words as they dwindle into silence. "I'll always put on a smile for the cameras, mum," I eventually say. She sighs, threading her fingers through her hair, touching at the strands of silver that show how fast time is passing us by.

"The cameras aren't the only things that can catch a dissenting word or two," she says darkly, pointing tensely at the dress she's picked out. "Get changed. The car will be here to take you to the square any moment now."

She bustles out of my room, gently shutting the door behind her. I look at the garment for a long moment before shrugging off my robe and slipping the dress on. It's a deep purple the colour of plums, one-shouldered, and falls to mid-thigh. I put on the heels mum set out for me, striding around my room to get reacquainted with the feel of wearing impractical shoes.

Downstairs mum sits me at the kitchen table and stands in front of me to do my make-up, a light dusting of powder and a coat of blood red lipstick. Briar comes downstairs from her bedroom, Erah scrambling down behind her, the four year old chattering a mile a minute. Briar smiles and sits down, her daughter launching her tiny body at me, settling into my lap. She cranes her neck to watch her grandmother coil my hair into an elegant up-do.

"I bet Enobaria's mother is doing the same thing across the way," Briar jokes. I laugh and mum even cracks a smile.

"Without a doubt," I say, glancing at my mother. "Maybe she's getting a telling off about scowling so much. It does cause wrinkles after all."

"Well, now you're just making fun of me," mum says with a roll of her eyes, giving a particularly hard tug at a lock of my hair. I give a quiet yelp and Erah giggles. The atmosphere quickly changes as the sound of a car horn outside blares, announcing my ride.

Mum frantically puts the last finishing touches on my hair and make-up, surveying me critically until Briar plops Erah in my lap and goes to the door. I coil my arm around my niece and she looks up at me with her big blue eyes, touching my earrings. "You look pretty, Aunty Ria," she says quietly, smiling. I kiss her on the top of her head and give her a squeeze before guiding her off my lap, only to have mum stop me to finish her fussing.

"Mum, you're going to make her late," Briar says. I smile and get to my feet, mum resting her hand on my shoulder.

"We'll be right behind you," mum announces shakily. Every year is the same. "Briar, where's your father?"

"He said he'd be here before Ria left," Briar says with a worried crease to her brow. I hesitate in the doorway, my niece slipping over to take her mother's hand, looking at me with an uncertain sadness, too young to be exposed to the Games in all their horror. My sister nudges me over the threshold. "Go on. You need to be there, where everyone can see you."

"It'll be over soon," I tell her, using mum's line because it feels right. If slightly ironic and mostly painful.

* * *

The Victor's Village is a group of houses arranged in a circular pattern around a paved courtyard. The car is waiting in the driveway, the engine idling. Enobaria and Brutus emerge from their homes, the latter shambling along in a suit too small for him. Enobaria is still a beautiful woman, though she's dressed in something better suited for a funeral. She eyes me distastefully as I slide into the backseat of the car at the front of the pack.

The two behind it are meant for Enobaria and Brutus. There are other victors, but they live elsewhere. Ajax Wesson, for example, is the son of the mayor. He won the Sixty-eight Hunger Games, the year before my win, and only lived in the Victor's Village for a handful of months before moving back with his parents, who own a lot of prime real estate in District 2.

Ajax is already at the square when I arrive. He's on stage, talking to the escort from the Capitol, Allete, who's been working District 2 since I was a child. Age is a strange process for people in the Capitol. It hardly seems to show on their faces, and if it does then they undergo surgery to turn back the clock

Allete is no less terrifying than I remember from last year, and all the years before. I climb up the stairs onto the stage. She widens her eyes in excitement when she sees me. "Illyria!" she exclaims, waving me over. Ajax stands beside her, watching me with an inscrutable look in his green eyes. He's the same age as me, but he played the Games when he was fifteen and I played when I was sixteen, the year after. We both volunteered, but for very different reasons.

Ajax is a Career tribute, who trained to enter the Arena, preparing to kill in order to win glory. He didn't need the wealth or the accommodation, and that's where the differences are the biggest. He's never wanted for anything in his life. His family is one of the wealthiest in the district and he's a crowd favourite from the Games, handsome and athletic, a survivor in every respect.

I don't like the way he looks at me as I approach. Allete grasps my wrist with her bony hand. "Oh, if only I had your figure!" she coos, patting my hip with a little too much candor. I blush when Ajax laughs and I fiercely pull my arm from Allete's grip, belatedly trying to soften the action with a smile.

"You look beautiful though," I say, struggling with the lie as it leaves my mouth. I gaze as adoringly as I can at her outlandish dress. "Is this one of Viet's works? No one pulls off his vision the way you do, Allete."

Allete is appropriately flattered and I'm free to take my seat on the stage, watching the citizens file into the square, the children taking their places with their age groups. Every face I see is a possible tribute. Someone I'll have to shake hands with and congratulate once the Reaping is over, so the cameras can see that I still support the Capitol's barbarism.

Enobaria and Brutus find their seats and Ajax takes the one beside me, pushing his fingers through his hair as he taps a rhythm on his knee, completely at ease. I attempt to emulate his attitude, but can't stop myself from jumping in my seat when I see my sister and parents enter the crowd.

I remember the uncertainty of the last five years at reapings. None of us knew the rules when it came to volunteers and family. Briar's name had been called once, and I still remember the sound of it rolling from Allete's tongue with glee, but I took her place. The pervading terror that her name would be drawn again, put back in the reaping ball, haunted me. This year she's safe, the first in such a long time that I haven't had to be afraid for her.

Mayor Wesson, Ajax's father, comes on stage to tell the story of Panem's history in his ponderous voice, nodding to his son when he finishes and gives up the podium to Allete. The escort gives her usual welcome speech and everyone waits with baited breath as she picks a slip of paper from the glass ball loaded with the name of every eligible District 2 child. Some names have been put in several times. Careers especially enter the draw over and over again to increase their chances of being picked.

The girl tribute is called first, a small brunette called Clove whose face is immediately awash with conflicting emotions. She smothers the flickering embers of genuine surprise for a more controlled expression, almost coy, as she approaches the stage. She's tiny, and young; fourteen, fifteen at the oldest.

I glance at Enobaria to see if she's had any sort of reaction to this girl, who she'll have to guide through the Games. Her face by comparison is a calm and reflective, showing only what it should.

The male tribute is called, but another volunteers almost instantly, his big frame lunging towards the stage. This one is older than Clove, but only by a bit. He's tall, appears strong, and has the definite look of a Career. His name is Cato, and the only thing I think when I look at him is that anyone who stands in his way will soon be measuring the length of their intestines.

I clap along with everyone else once the Reaping is over, preparing myself to watch the Games with the sort of apathy that only comes from years of practice. I stand, along with the rest of the victors to shake hands with Cato and Clove, unable to feel completely indifferent at the very real touch of their palms.

The mayor claps, hamming it up for the camera crews, and when Allete has led the tributes off stage, he puts his hand on his son's shoulder and gives me a sidelong glance. "This year you'll be mentoring, Jax," he says. "It's been decided. Enobaria and Brutus have given up their posts to the younger blood." The man gives me a dull smile. "I know you two will bring home another winner."

I blink, caught off guard as a camera is shoved in my face to capture a sound bite. "Wait," I say, trying to reach out to grab the mayor by the sleeve of his jacket. Ajax intercepts my arm and pulls my hand down, his fingers strong around my wrist. "Wait!" But the mayor is already walking off the stage, waving to the crowd as they begin to disappear from the square.

I want to chase after the man, demand an explanation. Maybe I misinterpreted what he said. He doesn't mean me, does he? I don't have to return to the Capitol, do I? The victory tours after I won were bad enough, but to go back as a mentor... I realize Ajax is still holding onto my arm, watching me intently as I struggle with the information I've been given.

My eyes snap to his face, the same way they did to Enobaria's before, to witness something that I can understand. An emotion I can sympathize with. But I can't read anything in his eyes that tells me what he's feeling.


End file.
